Their every move was painted by the glare of the flashbulb. His trainer, jockey, and owner became heroes in their own right. He galloped over Manhattan on massive billboards and was featured week after week, year after year, in Time, Life, Newsweek, Look, Pic, and The New Yorker. In an era when the United States’ population was less than half its current size,4 seventy-eight thousand people witnessed his last race,3 a crowd comparable to those at today’s Super Bowls.5 As many as forty thousand fans6 mobbed tracks just to watch his workouts, while thousands of others braved ice storms and murderous heat to catch a glimpse of his private eighty-foot Pullman railcar. Tuning in to radio broadcasts of his races was a weekend ritual across the country, drawing as many as forty million listeners.2 His appearances smashed attendance records at nearly every major track and drew two of the three largest throngs ever to see a horse race in the United States. They tucked their Roosevelt dollars into Seabiscuit wallets, bought Seabiscuit hats on Fifth Avenue, played at least nine parlor games bearing his image.
When he raced, his fans choked local roads, poured out of special cross-country “Seabiscuit Limited” trains, packed the hotels, and cleaned out the restaurants. In the latter half of the Depression, Seabiscuit was nothing short of a cultural icon in America, enjoying adulation so intense and broad-based that it transcended sport. It was an undersized, crooked-legged racehorse named Seabiscuit. The subject of the most newspaper column inches in 1938 wasn’t even a person. It wasn’t Pope Pius XI, nor was it Lou Gehrig, Howard Hughes, or Clark Gable. In 1938, near the end of a decade of monumental turmoil, the year’s number-one newsmaker1 was not Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Hitler, or Mussolini.
“Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bullfighters.” The Dingbustingest Contest You Ever Clapped an Eye On A Boot on One Foot, a Toe Tag on the Otherġ7. Charles Howard, Red Pollard, and Tom Smithĥ.
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